The maids led her outside into the late afternoon sun, but the courtyard behind the kitchens was empty. Beatrix turned in a circle, looking beyond to the stables and the carriage house, but did not see anyone. She looked to Birdie and Greta, who only shrugged, before she heard a hissing whisper come from behind the shrubbery.
“Psst! Lady Beatrix!” the raspy voice insisted. “Tis us!”
Beatrix peered around the foliage, looking for any sign of the voice, then leapt back in surprise when Pencot and Cooke stood up at precisely the same moment. She smiled, wishing it would be seemly to fall into their arms and hold them close for a moment.
“Why, what are you doing here?” she cried, smiling with relief. “Come to rescue me, have you?”
“Quite so, Lady Beatrix!” Pencot said. “We’ve managed to bring another horse so ya can ride with us.”
“Well done,” she said, clapping her hands. “I’m no prisoner, but I didn’t need to add to my worries by stealing a horse in order to leave. Wait but a moment while I pay my respects inside, and then we’ll be off.”
“But… do you know about your da?” Cooke asked hesitantly.
Beatrix nodded. “That I do. It is most terrible, but if we leave straight away, perhaps we can speak on his behalf! Only let me say my goodbyes first!”
Pencot and Cooke agreed to wait outside until Beatrix returned. Inside, she moved briskly through the house—surprised at how well she knew it after such a short time there—and made her way to Lord Bellton’s chambers.
Seeing no sign of Lloyd or Barclay, she risked knocking at the door. It was quiet for a time, so long that she wondered if the Marquess was resting once again. As she thought to perhaps leave a letter for him, a muffled voice from within called out.
“Enter,” the man said. Beatrix listened for a moment longer, trying to discern whether someone else was in the room.
Instead, when she opened the door, she was taken aback by the look of numb anger on the Marquess’s face. Usually so endearing and prone to laughter, now he looked very severe. He was wholly unlike himself.
“I hope I am not intruding,” she began softly, unnerved when Callum didn’t look at her. “Is something wrong? Are you in pain or feeling ill?”
“No, I’m fine,” he responded evenly.
“Oh. Well, I have managed to secure means to leave here—without having to inconvenience you with the request to borrow a horse, that is.” She waited for him to smile or register a response, but he did not.
“Very good then. Have a pleasant journey.” He looked away to the window, effectively dismissing her from his presence.
Beatrix could not help but feel wounded by the indifference to her departure. She came closer and sat in the chair near the bedside.
“What has happened? Mere moments ago, you were professing your never-ending love and devotion to me, threatening to throw away your fortune on my behalf. Now you are no more saddened by my leaving as you would be if the rat catcher came ‘round to empty the traps.”
Callum was silent, still looking to the window. Beatrix noted the grimace on his face, the twitch in his jaw that told her he was desperate to say something. Only he did not speak, neither to explain nor to refute her sentiment.
“I see,” she said quietly. “Your father pays you a visit, and I am immediately unwelcomed here. Tell me, was he more upset by your brush with death or by my presence? You are still not assured of recovering from your wound, but he has already taken his leave. That tells me the answer right there.”
“It’s not as you think,” he began, but Beatrix would not hear of any excuses.
“Tell me, did he threaten to have you cut from the will? Have your annual salary taken from you? Did he remind you that you have a bevy of cousins scattered about the countryside who would be grateful to inherit in your stead and be willing to bend to his will?”
“You do not know him,” Callum snapped in a harsher tone than Beatrix had ever heard him use.
“Nor do I ever care to,” she answered evenly, undisturbed by his outburst. “It should come to me as no surprise that a man who would leave you to the care of others at only four years old should brush into the room, observe that you were gravely injured, yet only concern himself with rumors that you’d taken a commoner into your house.”
The Marquess opened his mouth to reply, but he said nothing. Still refusing to meet her gaze, he ignored Beatrix’s assessment.
“Well then, thankfully there are those who truly care about my happiness and well-being, and they have come for me,” Beatrix said firmly. “I would wish you a quick recovery, but I am no longer in charge of whether you live or die.”
She stormed from the Marquess’s chambers and let the door close sharply behind her. Beatrix thought to make her way outside before she could succumb to tears of grief, but surprisingly, there were none. She felt no sadness all of a sudden, only the smug realization that she had been right about Callum all along.
* * *
“Let us go quickly,” Beatrix said when Pencot and Cooke met her behind the house with their horses. “Hopefully, we will arrive in time to benefit my father.”
“What shall I do with this then, Lady Beatrix?” Pencot asked, holding out a leather satchel in one hand.
